Charles Stross - The Clan Corporate

A bell rang, breaking through the quiet conversation. "That means dinner," said Lee, bowing slightly, then turning to slip away. "I'll see you later."

They filed out through the door, Helge on the king's arm, before an audience of hundreds of faces. She felt her knees knock. For a moment she half-panicked: then she realized nobody could see her face. "Put back your veil, my dear," the king murmured. "Your seat."

Hypnotized, she sat down on something extremely hard and unforgiving, like a slab of solid wood. A throne. A brassy cacophony of trumpetlike horns blatted from the sidelines as other notables stepped forward and sat down to either side of-then opposite-her. She moved her veil out of the way, then recoiled. A wizened old woman-a crone in spirit as well as age-sat across the table from her. "You," she accused.

"Is that any way to address your grandmother?" The old dowager looked down her nose at her. "I beg your pardon, your majesty, one needs must teach the young flower that those who stand tallest are the first to be cut down to size."

"This is your doing," Helge accused.

"Hardly. It's traditional." Hildegarde snorted. "Eat your sweetbreads. It's long past time you and I had a talk and cleared the air between us."

"We'd listen to her, if we were you," the king told Helge. Then he turned to speak to the elderly courtier on his right, effectively locking her out of his sphere of conversation.

"There's nothing to talk about," Helge said sullenly. She toyed with her food, some sort of meat in a glazed sugar sauce.

"Your traditional demeanor does you credit, my dear, but it doesn't deceive me. You're still looking for a way out. Let me tell you, there isn't one."

"Uh-huh." Helge took a mouthful of appetizer. It was disgustingly rich, implausible as an appetizer. Oily, too.

"Every woman in our lineage goes through this sooner or later," explained the dowager. She stabbed a piece of meat with her knife, held it to her mouth, and nibbled delicately at it with her yellowing teeth. "You're nothing special, child."

Helge stared at her, speechless with rage.

"Go on, hate me," Hildegarde said indulgently. "It goes with the territory." She'd switched to English, in deference to her granddaughter's trouble with the vernacular, but now Miriam was having trouble staying in character as Helge. "It'll go easier for you if you hate me. Go on."

"I thought you didn't believe in me." Miriam bit into the sweetbread. Sheep's pancreas, a part of her remembered. "Last time we met you called me a fraud."

"Allow me to concede that your mother vouched for you satisfactorily. And I will admit she is who she claims to be. Even after a third of a century of blessed peace and quiet she's hard to deny, the minx."

"She's no-"

"Yes she is. Don't you see that? She even fooled you."

"No she didn't."

"Yes she did." The dowager put her fork down. "She's always been the devious viper in my bosom. She brought you up to be loyal to her and her only. When she decided to come in from the cold, she sent you on ahead to test the waters. Now she's making a play for the royal succession. And she's got you thinking she's a poor, harmless victim and you're doing this to protect her, hasn't she?"

Miriam stared at Hildegarde, aghast. "That's not how it is," she said hesitantly.

Her grandmother looked at her disdainfully. "As you grow older you'll see things more clearly. You won't feel yourself changing on the inside, but the outside-ah, that's different. You've got to learn to look beneath the skin, child. The war of mother against daughters continues, and you can't simply opt out of it by imagining there to be some special truce between your mother and yourself." Servants were circulating with silver goblets of pale wine. "Ah, it's time."

"What?"

"Don't drink that yet," the dowager snapped. "It's mead," she added, "not that I'd expect you to know what that is, considering how Patricia neglected your upbringing."

Miriam flushed.

There was another blast of trumpets. Everyone downed eating-knives and looked at the raised platform expectantly.

"A toast," announced the king, raising his voice. "This evening, we have the honor to announce that our son Creon offers his hand to this lady, the Countess Helge voh Thorold d'Hjorth, in alliance of marriage. Her guardian, the Dowager Duchess Hildegarde voh Hjorth d'Hjalmar, is present this evening. My lady, what say you?"

He's not talking to me, Miriam realized, as the dowager shuffled to her feet. "Your majesty, my lord. On behalf of my family I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this offer, and I assure you that she would be delighted to accept."

Miriam stared, rosy-cheeked with embarrassment and anger, at her ancient grandmother.

"Thank you," the king said formally. "May the alliance of our lines be peaceful and fruitful." He raised his silver goblet. "To the happy couple!"

Several hundred silver goblets flashed in the light from the huge chandelier that dominated the ceiling of the room. A rumble of approval echoed like thunder across the room. Miriam looked around, her head twitching like a trapped bird.

"You can drink now," the dowager murmured, casting her voice over the racket. "You look like you need it."

"But I-do I get a chance to say anything?"

"No, for what would you say? In a decade you'll be glad you didn't speak. Just remember you owe me this opportunity to better yourself! I've worked hard for it, and if you let me down, girl-"

Incandescent with anger, Miriam glared across the table at her grandmother. "You told Henryk to threaten Mom. Didn't you?"

"What if I did?" The dowager stared at her. "Your mother's misled you quite enough already. It's time you learned how the world works. You'll understand in your time, even if you don't like it now. And one day you'll be a player yourself."

"I wouldn't cross the road to piss on you if you were on fire," Miriam retorted half-heartedly. She took a deep mouthful of the mead. It tasted of honey and broken hearts. Her cheeks itched. Overtaken by an obscure emotion, she pulled her veil down again. Tears of sorrow, tears of rage-who could tell the difference? Not her. I'll get you, she thought. I will be different! And nothing like this will ever happen to any daughter of mine!

The thunder of applause didn't seem to be dying down. To her left, an elderly count was looking around in puzzlement. "Eh, what-what?" The applause had a rhythmic note, almost thunderous, as if a huge crowd outside was stamping their feet in synchrony.

"That's enough," called the king. "You can stop now!" He sounded in good spirits.

People were looking around. That's odd, thought Miriam, puzzled. That's not applause. If I didn't know better I'd say it was-

There was an angry bang, with a harsh, flat note to it, then a sound, like a trillion angry bees. The windows overhead blew in, scattering shards of glass across the diners. Amidst the screams Miriam heard a harsh banging sound from outside, the noise of wheel-lock guns firing. The king turned to her. "Get under the table," he said quietly: "Now."

What? Miriam shuddered. Fragments of glass fell across the dining table. A jagged piece landed on the back of her hand, sticking into her glove. There was no pain at first. "What-"

Abruptly the king wasn't there anymore. The dowager was gone, too. There was another deep thud that jarred her teeth and made her ears hurt. The main door to the hall was open, and smoke came billowing in through it.

Suddenly Miriam was very afraid. She tried to slide down under the table but her voluminous skirts got in the way, trapping her in a twisted mound of fabric. There was shouting, and more banging, gunfire. From off to one side she heard the flat crackle of an automatic weapon, firing in controlled bursts. People were running around the hall, trying to get out. She tugged and managed to get untangled. What the hell is going on? She ducked round the back of the throne, dropping to the floor behind the raised platform. Half a dozen servants and diners cowered there, including James Lee: he opened his mouth to ask her something.